


The Dream

by bulletandsophia



Series: Endless [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Drama & Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 05:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10961079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletandsophia/pseuds/bulletandsophia
Summary: Plainly, and Jon painfully admits, maybe this is all about him having to let her go.





	The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> The conclusion to the Endless series. :)

The leaves have gone and the branches remain bare and frozen with snow and ice yet still, the Heart Tree stands firm in the middle of the chaos.

The Wolfswood from afar blazes with fire—illuminating the darkened sky—and the once always empty clearing of the godswoods is almost unrecognizable as monsters and men fight to the death.

Jon, as always when he dreams of this, remains meters away from the battle, unsuccessful in coming closer to the middle of everything, always just seemingly floating; unable to move and get to where _she_ sits at the foot of the tree, protecting the young man that lay unconscious on the frozen ground. Guards dressed in full steel and armor surrounds her and the tree, trying their might to fight off the creatures—the _wights_ —that are coming in closer and closer.

The sight is always painful to watch not only because of his inability to fight amongst them but of the horrible and immense hopelessness it paints. They, all of the people he sees in this woods, are dying; in bloodied mess and bruises, of bent armors and ungraceful sword fighting, of desperate attempts to combat the seemingly invincible foes.

His experience in battle—rather, his _inexperience_ of it in the present—makes Jon realize this is not just mere fighting.

 _This is slaughter_.

And the intensity of this scenario triggers the fear and agitation inside his chest (that only increases every single time he goes back to this dream) because all this pandemonium _and Sansa is just right there_ , witnessing it all.

So, despite knowing that he’ll never be able to reach her, Jon still wills his legs and feet to move in some pathetic attempt to appease his worry and guilt for maybe this time, he could save her. But as usual, he is frozen in place like the Heart Tree and the chaos continues around him.

Jon resigns to watch again, as always, and while he has already memorized this dream too like some sort of a sonnet, when he finally hears the painful scream—Sansa’s scream as a wight comes running to where she is—it still petrifies him to his core and the reflexes of his leg muscles become strained again as if some invisible rope wraps around him. He will not reach her. And it is only when the tall woman with the blonde hair kills the wight just in time does he feel the relief flooding; the rope collapsing, his body light as if some giant lifted off a dead weight from him.

The blonde knight stands close to Sansa this time but another wight compels her to move away, leaving Jon a clear view of Sansa and of the young man she holds so close. This time, in another desperate attempt, Jon wills for her to look at him, calling out her name, shouting. _Sansa, Sansa, Sansa_ , feeling the veins on his neck pop, hoping that she might hear him, _see_ him. But Sansa just sits there, almost rocking, still defiant and regal despite the battle and Jon knows he could look at her all day, all night, _forever_. But he feels it, like a hard tug, and despite wanting to stay and not tear his gaze away, the scene shifts and blurs.

The transition is abrupt and Jon is now running in the courtyard, carrying another heavy weight, its handle smooth and cold in his grip. The chaos has not silenced and the castle is barely standing against the onslaught of men, women, and other magical forces around. Up in the air, a dragon soars—it screeches and Jon quickly looks up to view its extravagant display of both beauty and hostility. For a moment, he feels like flying. But the ground feels sturdier, balanced and firm. And as he continues to run, a different form appears on his side, quiet as always but his grandeur is nevertheless another kind of beauty Jon always beholds.

 _Ghost_.

Together, they run past soldiers and maesters, lords and the common folks, northerners and southerners, desperate to reach the one place where she is; his heart thrumming because she should have moved south, she should have journeyed to the Riverlands but she is stubborn, as always, and says in her last letter,

“ _Winterfell is our home. I will not retreat and let it fall into ruins_.”

Out of the corner of his eye, a man—a dead man—comes charging at him, screaming and flailing. He readies his sword, stops and angles but it is Ghost’s hot breath that welcomes the undead as the direwolf jumps and tears it apart, limb by limb, its shriek bouncing and echoing amidst other cries…

The tug pulls Jon to another scene and a sudden exhaustion overwhelms his body. He is panting and he is gasping for air. His chest is tightening, his muscles complaining—beaten and strained but still, he swings his sword again and again and again, wight after wight, until he hears the shatter of their broken bones as if it were glass. The screams from the woods are astoundingly getting louder and louder Jon knows this moment of rest, as the last of the wights in the clearing shatter into pieces, is not going to last long. He looks around and sees the soldiers that remain in the godswoods are few. Like an army commander, he knows no other help is coming. They are the last of it. And he knows, they will not survive this.

Only, when he scans the clearing one more time and looks back to the Heart Tree where Sansa was first embracing their unconscious brother—Bran, Bran, _Bran!_ —then to see her now, her body frail but determined, standing over and between Bran and the Night King, Jon feels his throat rip as he screams his anguish. He feels himself almost vibrate with anger. He raises his sword and runs to her, repulsed as the Night King turns to greet him. There’s a blur before he can even reach her…

When Jon’s vision clears, he first sees the sky as if he is afloat, as if he is a bird—a crow—flying overhead and to a dawn he thought was not possible. This part of the dream, as Jon’s heart knows so well, is the hardest to take despite the visible calm. Down below he sees the aftermath of the battle: Winterfell barely standing, towers obliterated, bodies scattered all over, and the fire continuously devouring the forest outside.

The godswoods is a picture of melancholy. And like a purveyor, or a ghost, Jon watches again as the scene unravels. Another woman now carries Bran’s still unconscious body away from the Heart Tree. Soldiers are helping other soldiers—no matter the sigil they wear—stand amidst the clutter and the dead. Then there is the tall, blonde-haired woman, armor almost destroyed, forehead and lips bloodied from the fight, slowly walking towards the foot of the tree where two bodies lay side-by-side. She kneels then slumps and then quietly, she sobs. Her shoulders bow, her sword clangs as she finally lets go, almost as if, and ironically, in defeat. Jon sees the blonde reach for Sansa’s face, removing strands of red hair that are obstructing her features. Jon faintly remembers her name—a lady, a bear? A maiden fair? No matter, she cries and Jon feels her sorrow run through his chest.

It only takes a moment too when he feels it intensifies, when the worse has finally come, when another woman emerges from the woods. She is dirty with mud, her dark hair—so much like his—is tied half-way. She is stroking Ghost’s fur in one hand while the other holds a thin needle-like sword that gleams almost red with blood in the faint sunlight. She stops as she sees the blonde knight and the bodies.

His and Sansa’s bodies.

The girl falters a little; her face frowns. Jon tries to think of her name, always, and it’s there, almost at the tip of his tongue. He wants his vision to move in closer and see her up close for he feels how much he misses her so. But the dream never allows him. So, he just watches as the dark-haired girl slowly walks again as if unsure. But inches away from his body, inches away from Sansa’s body, where a glistening pool of red surrounds her, she runs away, like the little mischief that she is…

 _Arya_.

Jon’s chest tightens.

 _Arya. Arya. Arya_.

He wants to wake up from the dream now, wanting nothing but to write down her name, afraid that he will forget it if this goes on. But Jon knows it’s not yet over. There is some time left for him to take it all in as if in punishment for winning against the undead. So, hovering at the scene, as Arya runs back to the castle, as the knight still cries as she sits, as the other woman tries to wake Bran from his trance, Jon only has her body and his body to look at as he waits for the dream to be over.

They could have made a beautiful picture, he so desperately consoles himself. They lay there, side-by-side underneath the Heart Tree, eyes closed as if only sleeping. The sky is slowly brightening, the winds now a warm caress, and the blue roses are vivid among the snow. Jon has this image of him and her ingrained even in his waking hours. But how lovely could this even be if only he had moved closer—this version of himself laying on the snow—before his last breath so that the few inches of space that separate him from touching her skin will be nonexistent; how far better would it be waking up after the nightmare knowing that he had left that life holding Sansa’s hand?

The grief, the regret, and the anger mix in Jon’s chest and the familiar and final heavy pull wakes him up finally, finding himself panting and sweating in his darkened apartment. The pale ceiling welcomes him and the faint orange glow of the lamppost outside the street creeps in but barely lighting up the space.

Jon closes his eyes again and breathes, feeling like he’s just come up from drowning. In some small essence, he just really did. How can he not drown in the richness and the vastness of what he has witnessed?

He searches the bedside table and picks up the alarm clock that reveals it’s only a few minutes after midnight. The sudden despair doesn’t leave him and he next reaches for his forehead to nurse the oncoming headache. Surely enough, this is another night where he will find no sleep.

The dream has been keeping him awake for the past days and yet no fire has brought him out of this new life yet. His impatience has threatened for him to recreate the foolish stunt he did the last time but he thinks jumping from a hospital building is not another option this time around.

For one, he has not even found Sansa yet.

The name lingers in his mind for so long he feels like drowning again. The taste, even if he did not utter it, is bittersweet on his tongue and a sudden pang of longing hit him squarely on the chest.

So like an idiot, he murmurs the name again.

His will to find her never wavers but this time, he doesn’t even know where to start. His chest never starts to heave abruptly, his feet never tingles for a walk, his breath doesn’t hitch despite searching for hours and hours in this new town. A hard, bitter truth sometimes crosses his mind but Jon chooses to ignore it completely. Because what are the chances that she may not even be here?

Maybe, she is not even in this world anymore. And the angry whispers in his head that he also tries to avoid creep up in the saddest of days: _what has he done?_

But something must have happened, Jon convinces himself passionately.

After that jump from the hospital’s rooftop and he woke up in this life, the nightmares have begun to haunt him almost every day but a new life has never occurred. Jon thinks, the jump must have disrupted something in the cycle, in the continuum. He doesn’t know what, but until he can prove this to be true, he closes his mind and his heart to any possibilities or hope because on the other side of things, perhaps, _nothing_ has changed.

He is still here anyway, waiting.

Again.

Jon pulls the blanket away to relieve himself of the sudden annoyance and heat. He sits on the bed and contemplates, consoling himself that at least this time in the dream, he got _Arya_ and _Bran_ ’s name to remember—names to finally place on the faces he also frequently dreams of, his sister and his brother—cousins, truly, but he doesn’t care. The wonder and the ache in his chest never leaves as he stands and walks to the bathroom because, _whatever has happened to them?_ The dream has never let him move further.

He turns the tap and splashes his face with some cold water and he almost groans with the relief it brings. But the mirror as he looks up reveals a face that is almost gaunt, pale; albeit beard newly trimmed, his curly hair is in disarray and his grey eyes seem more lost and tired than ever.

Jon switches the lights off.

He does not want to see that face of dismay, of failure—a bastard’s face, truly, because what else is he anyway? The unwelcoming darkness and emptiness of the apartment as he leaves the bathroom also makes him want to vomit and think, when will it ever end? He cannot take another night just staring at the ceiling, feeling useless and stupid, wondering when will he ever see her face again. So, hastily putting some clothes on, a night on the beach and then eventually, the sunrise later on, is a warm welcome he can handle, a welcome he has become addicted to ever since he woke up to this life.

Pulling a thick gray hoodie, Jon slams his door shut and climbs down the old staircase of the apartment building and finally walks into the street. The cold air is god-sent and Jon has his fill. He pulls his sweater closer as he starts to mindlessly walk into the silence of the night, pacifying the aching parts of his mind (his chest, his heart).

This little town he now calls home in this lifetime is charming in its own right. A seaside sanctuary for those who want to escape, with little cafes and galleries and art houses where people with wild tattoos and wilder accessories frequent. He loves this place only because all the other colorful residents save him from any attention to himself. He blends in perfectly, like a brick wall.

Jon turns a corner and from a far he hears a thunder roll and then the quiet flash of lightning. It almost convinces him to turn back but the shore too is temptingly near that the waves of the sea is far louder than the threat of rain. He pushes through, passing dimmed marquee boards and shop signages and tells himself, maybe the rain can also do him good.

Jon walks two more blocks to finally reach his destination, crossing the narrow, cobbled road and then there before him, the dark and empty beach that suddenly becomes the void he wants to get lost in. Maybe he can find Sansa in that abyss where the gods still play gods and this fate is simply their child’s play. Maybe they have forgotten about him and this game, too.

Then what a waste this all must have been.

Jon feels the squish of the sand under his boots as he walks closer and closer to the edge of the shore. He stares at the foams then back to the darkness and the oncoming waves, his hands deep in the pockets of his sweater. The view is too little and too much of everything at once and there is a little part of him that wants to weep. It is empty and yet it is full. In front of him, he sees the limits of the darkness, and also, the _possibilities_ of the same darkness.

The waves, as it crashes, become the rhythmic peace he wants his mind to consume. In a different scenario, a night on the beach could have been far more attractive and less mind-boggling: intertwined hands, a warm blanket, thermos filled with coffee, a boombox—perhaps, just a good conversation.

He tries to recall, but Jon is surprised to realize never once in all his lifetimes with Sansa have they ever spent a night on the beach. He guesses but he knows for sure, she would have loved it.

Another thunder rolls above and Jon looks up, somberly realizing that there are also no stars in the skies tonight. It slightly depresses him how fittingly and annoyingly the fates have worked against him today. They could have at least given him _something_ to look at.

There are also no stars in his dreams, Jon remembers. Only ice and fire and the vivid image of Sansa amidst the chaos, like some kind of a renaissance painting he once pondered on in a museum lifetimes ago. The deadened weight is back on his chest for endlessly, Jon apprehends, no matter how much he’d have his fill of her in whichever lifetime, like that painting where it so closely and so _flagrantly_ depicts her (inches away from his face too), it could never be enough—like she was created as the only entity to satisfy the gaping hole in his chest, like she was created to love and yet at the same time, _torment_ him so.

Sansa is a part of him. Every minute, every second, every day. So, Jon wonders in spite of himself, shaking his head bitterly in the honesty of his thoughts, is he so desperately and achingly a part of her life too?

The answer is a dull ache in him because for sure, if he was— _is_ —she would have remembered him every time. She would have been here, offering him a cup of coffee from her thermos. He feels ashamed just thinking of it, as if it was her fault they ended up in this situation when he knows it was _his_ fault; his selfishness of not wanting to part from her brought them this endless grief.

And so for a time now, in between all the nightmares, the sweat, the vomit, and the beach walks, Jon is slowly and yet forcefully trying to convince himself to accept this one epiphany he had discovered some time ago. When evidently the jump from the hospital has made no obvious alterations and his undying devotion to finding Sansa in all his lifetimes only offered a stagnant and almost unfulfilled lives, Jon wonders and dangerously plays with an idea that threatens to change everything.

Because what if, what if he just… _stops?_

Stop looking. Stop trying. Stop doing anything that will reconnect him to all their other lives, pretending that each one could make a difference, that in the next life, she will finally remember when he knows, _he just knows_ , that she won’t. That she will never remember?

Plainly, and Jon painfully admits, maybe this is all about him having to let her go.

All her past, all her present, all her future.

He still can’t seem to find himself speaking of it out loud, fearing that if he does, it would feel all too real and cruel as if he is betraying her. But as his mind flashes the idea in his head like a warning sign, perhaps this is what the gods want him to do. To realize this ultimate truth that in the scheme of things, the real villain in this story is no one else but himself.

And as Jon fully knows well, the villain never deserves to get what he wants the most.

The wind and the waves pick up like the sudden grief that instantly floods him. The sea spray also forces Jon to wince, as if trying to keep him awake and away from the murderous self-pity. But the gods surely know better than to simply douse him in water.

They could do worse, he thinks.

His hair, already in its shambled state, further swirls with the wind that he bunches and ties them up hastily into a bun. Then as he does, and as if the gods have heard him so, he feels the first drops of rain along with the salty spray.

Jon feels one, fat, thick blotch on his shoulder, then on his arm, and then another and another and another all over the place. With a sigh and a roll of his eyes (because now these gods are just showing off, probably), he pulls his hood up as the rain cascades even faster and harder.

He stands still in place at the beach for some time, unmindful and unbothered with the heavy fall. It isn’t until the waves have also become temptingly dangerous that he feels another escape at the tip of his fingertips. With a couple of more steps, it could be over. He could try to make this end again. He could let the waves swallow him whole.

But the heaviness he feels lures him someplace else, as if the winds and the waves become harsher only to push him away from the shores. The rain continuously pours as the cold finally seeps in and touches his skin, surprising Jon and leaving his sweater heavy and soaked-through with rain water. The prospect of getting pneumonia is another selfish thought that crosses his mind but as the wind gushes hard and the waves crash loudly one more time, Jon all of a sudden feels so small in the grand spectacle before him: of the waves standing meters high, with the rain piercing like cold needles—hard and fast, with the wind howling like wolves in despair.

For the longest time, Jon feels fearful.

Weirdly, dying tonight, _alone,_ in this circumstance, does not feel right.

With a heavy breath and ignoring the growing terror crawling at his back as the waves and the rain swirl around, Jon finally turns and makes his way back to the cobbled road, feeling the dire need to getaway.

In slight panic as if someone or something is chasing him, he runs back to town barely seeing where he is going as the thunder and lightning continue to dance up above. The rain is also turning into a sheet, glowing with the orange light of the lampposts and slightly obstructing what little of the road he could see.

Jon knows he needs to turn right in the next corner to get back to his building but as the wind blows a hard one again, almost toppling him, he could not fail to see the dry, gaping space just to his left where a garage door is left open. Mindlessly, he hurries for the cover as another lightning strikes with a loud crack.

Jon pants as he pushes his hood back, now finding himself dripping wet and barely hearing his shallow breaths amidst the rain and the thunder.

With what little he could see, he examines the garage and finds that it’s filled with buckets and buckets of paint, some wood scraps, torn tarpaulins, canvasses, and old newspapers he knows in his heart that he is probably in one of the town’s art galleries— _Silverio’s_ , _Hues and Muse_ , _Arbitrary_ , he does not know which one. And if the clutter around does not tell him so, the overpowering smell of glue and varnish can confirm his thoughts. But he simply does not care whichever gallery he is in. The dry is all he needs.

Jon chooses an empty paint bucket and turns it upside down and sits, waiting for the thunderstorm to be over. He also removes his sweater in an attempt to save himself from getting any wetter but he knows, the cold and the cough would come in no later than brunch time later on.

He should not have left the apartment, he rebukes. He’d take its emptiness rather than this uncomfortable and wet version of himself.

He would have also happily and patiently sat on this make-shift seat and wait out the storm if only he has not heard of faint movement from the building’s side door at the other end of the room and sees underneath the faint glow of lights and the warmth enticing enough to have him stand up and try to beg for some towels from whoever is on the other side.

Jon knocks but no one answers. He tries again.

It’s on this third attempt that he feels it, jolting him and making his mouth dry because there it is, the undeniable hitch in his breath as if he is excited; that certain desperation and longing he feels his hand automatically grip the door knob tighter only to turn and find out that it’s unlocked, only to feel his feet leading him mindlessly again as if something— _someone_ —is pulling him.

Jon knows this feeling; thousand times he’s felt it and thousand times he has surrendered.

 _No_ , he says to himself. _It can’t be_.

He steps away from the now open door, his panic rising as if truly, he is a thief in the night.

He could not believe it.

 _He would not believe it_.

The thought, the idea— _the possibility that he was led here by the gods; of their angry rain and angry wind and angry waves_ —lingers in his head because _why?_ Not when he has finally found a semblance of resignation and acceptance that his life and her life, perhaps, could never ever be and yet…

He so desperately wanted to feel this pull a long time ago.

Putting on a brave face and succumbing to the itch, the weakness, and the want that lure him (as always), Jon lets himself in the dimly lit corridor. On his left is another door that he assumes leads to the gallery’s office and then on his right is another short pathway that leads to a turn where the warm, bright lights are coming from.

“Hello?” his voice croaks.

Silence.

Jon wants to try and knock on the other door but that is not where his feet wants him to go, not what his hands want to reach. The itch intensifies and the fear is palpable.

 _She’s there at the other end,_ he asks himself. _Isn’t she?_

The suddenness of it all is all so jarring that when Jon takes a step, the faint squeak of his boot on the hardwood floor jolts him. He’s been waiting for her intensely if not pathetically, but tonight, when he’s dripping wet from head to foot, there simply is no room in his soul that prepares him for it.

It could not be as bad as fighting the White Walkers, could it?

But Jon thinks, it _is_ worse than fighting the White Walkers. Because what if he gets there and turns the corner and finds Sansa only to see that look on her face he so much despises—the one she wears all the time when she _doesn’t_ recognize him?

He’s only a few steps away from her now and Jon knows that if he moves one more inch, he would be seen by whoever is on the other side. The corridor is too narrow to make a quick escape and if by chance he happens to get into the worse of things with her, he stands no chance. Perhaps, this is the death he’s been waiting for. A death with her, by her, because of her. Whichever way, Jon knows it would be his loss. For if he turns back without looking, the curiosity will eat him up until his next life.

He feels the undeniable mixture of fear and excitement in his chest. If he prolongs this, he knows he might just combust. But Jon convinces himself: what is another moment of seeing her face? What is a minute of hiding behind the wall only to gaze upon her red hair or blue yes? Jon realizes, he _does not_ even need to talk to her. She does not even need to know he existed in this life.

He won’t stay long. He only needs a second or two.

A glimpse, a glance.

That’s all what he would allow. And that should be enough.

With a deep breath, Jon finally moves, consoling himself that soon after, when he had his fill of her, he could walk away from this life and perhaps never endure this curse any longer, and then finally, _Sansa could be free_. But as for himself, knowing he is a different story— _for how can he even see himself not a part of her_ —it will be painstakingly difficult to get away but Jon promises, for her sake, that he will try.

This view of her would be the last time.

He now strides the corridor faster, wanting to get this over with but in all honesty, he just feels thoroughly impatient because how long has he waited for this? This boldness and rashness is a small gift—an indulgence—that he often doesn’t allow himself to partake.

Despite the sadness taking over and the air of finality in this action that makes him want to sob, silently, Jon celebrates. Having her now, _loving her now_ , even only on his own, is more than enough—more than what he could hope for in this circumstance where he is unprepared, where _she_ is unprepared, and when they are in the middle of a huge thunderstorm that threatens to create havoc in their small town.

He has finally found her and that’s all that matters.

And like what he always tells himself, even if she never remembers, he does.

 _And what difference that makes_.

So, stopping at the edge of the corner, Jon takes in a final breath for this is it.

One last time.

Every second seems to tick so slowly as he finally takes a peek. He feels his senses heighten, his chest heaving, his breath deep and consuming, and his heartbeat is almost rendering him deaf as if its thumping is a drumbeat for a final execution. His body also feels numb from both excitement and longing the wall seems like the greatest support. But as Jon holds on, as he finally looks up and surveys the room, his breath is taken away by another thing entirely.

Surprisingly, there are no signs of Sansa in there.

Because what stands in the middle of the glossy, hardwood-floored gallery is not Sansa Stark but a huge Heart Tree—white with thick roots and red leaves, with branches touching the ceiling, crawling and spreading out to the exposed awnings.

Jon cannot be mistaken, no, not when he dreams of it almost every night. Its grandeur and magnificence in the middle of the room is another kind of magic no witch or god can conjure. He could also look at this all day, all night.

The slight fear leaves him as he now crosses the room in wonder and slowly go around the tree in full awe. It’s exactly how he sees it in his dreams. It’s an exact replica. And when he reaches the other side, Jon almost jumps again as the tree’s crying face greets him, it’s red tears a shade darker than its leaves. The only thing missing now is the snow and Jon could pretend he is back in Winterfell. Or perhaps, maybe he _is_ in Winterfell and that all this time, he has not awakened from his dream yet. How wonderful would that be, to be back in that first life where she can remember him?

Jon touches the trunk and feels it sturdy albeit hollow and he recognizes that its exterior is not a rough bark but paper. The truth, that this is indeed an installation, slightly wakes him from the illusion as the semblance is just so uncanny he almost wants to weep again. He crouches and stares at the face, realizing he is in the exact same spot where he, time and again, sees Sansa holding Bran to her chest. If he looks closer, _deeper_ , it’s as if he could still picture them here. Another wave of pain and yearning overwhelm him but Jon could not help the small smile. Because at least in this version, he is finally able to reach where they are.

But as he is so welled-up into this undeniable relief and slight nostalgia, Jon barely comprehends another certain truth that hovers for the excitement, the itch, and the pull he felt earlier were indeed not only because of the presence of the Heart Tree. Because as soon as another lighting cracks and he glances outside the window in surprise and then only to finally find _her_ standing in the entry way where he also came from, Jon instantly considers himself a fool once more.

Death, perhaps, is finally here. He hitches a breath, his heart thumps in his chest. If this is death, if _she_ is death, he’d gladly welcome it so.

Repressing another bitter laugh, he knows, the gods have played him well this time.

She is dressed in a plain white shirt and jeans, her hair up in a ponytail, and she is looking at him slightly aghast, perhaps even mirroring his own expression—petrified and in some ways, disbelieving.

He is breathless even as she just stands. As he knows so well, she is the only thing that could be so arresting. Truly, he is still in a dream for how can he deserve to see such beauty?

Jon slowly stands from his crouch, his knees almost giving up for this is all so foreign, so unexpected he does not have the energy to make sense of it. They stand silent and unmoving for a long time and the only thing that runs in Jon’s head is the simple urge of touching her and making sure she is real. But the sudden logic that flashes in his mind reminds him that he is an intruder here. He is a stranger who walked inside the gallery because some magical force alerted him so. Not wanting to worry her, Jon opens his mouth to apologize and make up an excuse but she beats him to it.

“Hi,” she says weakly _but what melody_.

As usual, her name that is almost always on his lips is on the verge of revealing itself but Jon holds it back.

 _Not yet_.

But in his mind, he spoils himself.

 _Sansa_.

Like a salvation, the name runs in his head.

Sansa. Sansa. Sansa.

This is a dream, indeed.

“I saw you coming in from the rain,” she continues, then lifts up a towel he barely notices she is holding for there is just her and his eyes and his mind sees nothing else.

She walks closer, steady and yet looking, perhaps, unsure at the stranger. Jon can feel himself tremble—in excitement, in fear—for he is not also sure as he now looks at her, studies her as she gets nearer, if this Sansa is a Sansa that recognizes him. Only, this is a Sansa that is still walking nearer and nearer to where he stands.

And then, she is too close for his comfort.

Too close that he might just lock her in an embrace, too close that he cannot help but look at her lips, too close that her eyes are just the mesmerizing sights of blue, like the sky—looking almost so sure, almost so determined as if she knows his secret, as if there is something she understands and that he could not comprehend.

Jon blocks the hope creeping in, pulling himself away from the sudden trance.

He knows that hoping instantly—when everything else prior this moment has not and _never_ worked out for him—and then to only get it all wrong in the end, will be his ultimate heartbreak. Jon is sure he will not survive it.

“Here,” he hears her whisper and then sees her stretch her arm to offer the towel. “You need this.”

Jon blinks as he looks down, deciding that gazing on the beige towel is far safer than continuing to stare back at her also seemingly searching eyes.

He wants to say something, to utter a few words of gratitude for the first thing she does is offer him a towel instead of calling in on the cops. But his nerves fail him. Jon can only nod as he reaches, careful not to touch her hand. His patience can only do and restrict him as much. He still doesn’t dare look up once he grabs a hold of the towel and he wills her again to do something, to ask, to shout even—just _something_ to get them out of the silence that is eating up each and every part of his being.

He wipes the rain water from his face and his arms. And from his peripheral view, Jon sees Sansa finally looks away and starts to fidget. He feels the urge to stop her, to take her hand in his and tell her he would not harm her and that, _he would leave_. He almost scolds himself with that ridiculous notion for why would he leave? She’s here. But even if he wants to stare and stay much longer, he is also afraid of what he could see and understand once she meets his gaze again.

The turmoil has rendered Jon feeling even more stupid and petrified. He realizes, he’s been wiping on the same arm over and over again.

“Why were you outside, anyway?” she suddenly asks. And Jon knows it’s a mistake to turn and face her once more but who is he kidding? He can never look away.

But pathetically, he can only say, “I don’t know.”

Another heap of silence ensues. And when this silence finally forces Jon to get his senses back and start to dry other parts of himself like his hair, he cannot help but feel her burning gaze on him. In another attempt, Jon prays for her to do something, to say something, because at this point where she still unwaveringly stares at him, the gods only know what he could do.

“Sorry, I didn’t even introduce myself—” Jon says at the same time she blurts out, “How long have you been in this town?”

He chuckles but he notices Sansa’s shoulder slump in disappointment and her stare finally point elsewhere; her smile, he frowns as he notices, is forced and insincere. This is not the Sansa he knows, in whichever lifetime.

“Go on.” she smiles weakly again.

Jon clears his throat, tucking the towel in his arm. “I’m sorry I just barged in. The rain is just… wild out there.”

Sansa nods.

Jon takes a deep breath before finally saying and offering a hand as politely as he could, “I’m Jon.”

And then like instinct, he watches how she’d react. But the confusion starts to eat him up the moment Sansa looks at his hand as if she has only seen something like it for the first time in her life.

“Are you okay?” Jon now asks, pulling his hand back for he does not want to make her feel even more uncomfortable.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” she sighs, wrapping her arms around her waist. “It’s just that… you’re... when I saw you running in here, I thought… perhaps.”

_What?_

And then pointedly—determinedly, as if a final straw, a final risk—she asks. “ _Did you not feel anything?_ ”

Jon’s heart thrums.

She does not mean that.

 _No,_ _she does not mean that_.

But the silence of his shock allows Sansa to push through with her words as if in conclusion, in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” she now clears, looking away and shrugging with a painful resignation. “I just thought you’re someone… I was looking for.”

Jon could not believe what he is hearing. Even if realizing that her last words were some sort of an admission, it’s not enough. Not when hope always seems so far away in his life.

“ _What do you mean?_ ” Jon demands now, wanting her to say what he thinks she is about to say. The anticipation is already a sweet ecstasy to his deprived ears. He could not be mistaken, no, not when the Heart Tree stands in the middle of the gallery and he knows for sure only _she_ could have created such an artwork.

His jump from that hospital building might have truly altered something. And gods he hopes so much right now that it did.

Jon’s fingers are almost numb with energy as he wants nothing but to reach for her and shake her awake.

 _Say it._ He agonizes in his head. _Just say it_.

But Sansa only smiles sadly again, almost apologetically, “It’s nothing… he’s not… he’d recognize me, for sure… I’m sorry, I just really thought...”

Jon cannot take it anymore. He steps closer, his eyes piercing her because how he waited for this to happen and this is not the right moment for her to just dismiss and give him up.

Deliberately now, he asks with all the energy and will and _desperation_ he could muster, “What do you mean _, Sansa?_ ”

And that does it.

Her head snaps back to look at him and then frowns. He sees understanding dawn on her face as her eyes instantly well with tears.

He barely hears her when she whispers, “ _Jon?_ ”

And he feels like he has died and resurrected over and over and over again.

The recognition is there. The recognition is clear.

She sees him, _knows him_ , the way he knows her.

“Say it again.” he croaks.

Sansa’s eyes flood with more tears as she says his name breathlessly. “ _Jon._ ”

Not wanting to lose any more time, Jon disregards the towel away and crosses the short distance between them and then the only thing that matters, as he steadies her face in his hands, is his lips crushing unto hers because finally, _finally_.

And if this is a dream, Jon could not care any less.

He devours her with such ardor he might have tasted each and every version of her—the strong-willed lady as she protects her brother under the Heart Tree in Winterfell, the ballerina as she gracefully climbs down the tour bus, the doctor as she cleans his wounds from his thoughtless crash, the stranger as she skates around the frozen pond, the wife, all pregnant and soft and warm, who offers her arm so they could take a walk in their little garden.

This is her, all of her, and Jon, for the life of him, can’t get enough.

In between kisses Sansa struggles to say, “I know you… I’ve been _searching_ for you.”

The words that come out of her lips make him feel like he is flying.

She caresses his face like he is porcelain and he could break, and he holds her like she is sand and she could slip away. But then even more so, and just when he feels the fear again, his heart clenches in such joy so foreign that he shares her tears, Sansa finally murmurs a declaration that yields a passionate determination in him, with a huff so raw, so possessive—so, so unlike him but so, so strong he could take any wight with his bare hands.

“I remember, Jon.” she tearfully whispers. “ _I remember everything_.”

There is too much of her at once and as his eyes water, Jon decides there is also so much that separates him from her that an inch of space—a fabric, a thread—is a division he would never allow any longer. He tears, he pulls, he tugs, and all the while not letting her get too far. He feels her arms wrap around his neck as she also takes her fill of him and what bliss it is to be loved by her in this way.

Faultlessly and uninhibitedly.

She groans as Jon pulls the last of the clothing that separates them and he hooks her legs around his waist as he settles them down on the hardwood floor.

“Sansa,” he’s finally able to say as he moves and searches her face, running a finger over her reddened cheeks. “ _Sansa._ ”

She cries as he says it again.

Jon kisses the tears away; he kisses her forehead, her nose, and buries his face on her neck and consumes her there. Her whimpers and her fingers running through his hair is the only cure he will ever need. His hands roam as his lips return to hers and her every curve and her every crevice are explored, touched, caressed, and memorized.

“Tell me this is real,” he pleads. “ _Tell me_.”

Sansa nods and holds his face again.

“Yes, I’m here.” she kisses him with as much passion. “ _We’re here._ ”

And that is all what Jon needs to hear. And when he lifts her leg up and she hitches a breath, when no skin of his is not touching hers, when he finally finds the rhythm that makes her moan the sweetest sounds he had missed, when it only makes her pull him closer, Jon knows of nothing else.

 _We’re here_.

Where his breath is her breath, where her limbs are his limbs, where her reflexes are his reflexes, and where his thoughts—his life, his fears, his needs, his passions, and his faults—are hers.

Only hers.

Jon moves so agonizingly slow, savoring every single second of it where nothing begins and ends with him but only feels everything to start, reverberate, and flourish within her. If he could meld his heart to hers at this moment, he would.

“Jon,” Sansa whispers in his ear. “ _Jon_.”

He feels everything is simultaneously familiar and foreign, for perhaps the betrayal and the truth in all of their time wasted and time apart remind him of the million things they still have to overcome, to compensate, and to fill in. But as Jon pushes in deeper into her and he feels Sansa responds so wholeheartedly so, arching her hips to gladly meet his, this moment, where they are as one underneath the Heart Tree, is the only place he knows they could begin.

Jon feels it coming as Sansa also trembles beneath him. They reach and clamor for that sweet, sweet end that Sansa tightly grasps his shoulder after another lovely gasp and Jon instantly seals the moment with another tender kiss, claiming her as his and offering himself as hers. And as soon as the calm of her warmth soothes and sates him, Jon feels another epiphany arising, as if the sun is dawning finally on his darkened skies. Because right in this moment where there is only Sansa that surrounds his entire being—and where he is unable to grasp the concept of seconds, of minutes, of hours, but only of the eternity she embodies—Jon could not anymore think of another instance he has felt alive.

So, so alive.

Gently, he rests his forehead on hers as they relax, feeling so lightweight for the longest time and slowly, he pulls away only to turn them around and have her on his chest. It does not take too long before she lifts herself up and stares at him. The longing on her face is an expression he knows too well.

Sansa touches his cheek and frowns, “I’ve missed so much.”

Jon sadly smiles and holds her hand, unable to not relieve the pain of the waiting, of the lifetimes wasted.

“There’s always this dream,” she starts to explain with a faraway gaze. “The dream where there is snow and there is chaos and there is this tree. I’ve been dreaming of this tree.”

Sansa looks up to the Heart Tree and smiles fondly albeit somberly. Then she looks back to him so lovingly Jon wants time to stop again and bask in the glorious scene before him. Her hair is disheveled, her cheeks are tinted red, and her body is resting so fittingly on his as if she knows no place else.

“Then, I dream of you, too.” she adds as her hand touches his cheek again. “All the time.”

She moves closer and rests her head on the crook of his neck and Jon is more than glad that she did so.  

“Slowly, I was starting to remember.” she murmurs in his neck and absently traces patterns on his chest. “Of what I’ve lost, of what I’ve found, and then what I’ve lost again. It was terrifying to wake up to so many truths at the same time but then I realized…”

She pauses, urging Jon to look down. He pushes strands of hair from her face.

“What?” he asks.

With bright blue eyes, Sansa looks up at him. “ _You._ ”

He takes a deep breath.

“Of what you’ve lost too,” she continues. “Of the nights you also woke up alone and unsure of the world… of how long you’ve endured this… then to find me and realize that I _don’t_ remember you.”

The pitiful wave returns and Jon feels the lump on his throat. He cuts her off with another deep kiss for there is another time to weep. There is another time to tell stories. There is another time to figure out what has made her remember, of what brought them here today.

But Jon reiterates this one truth he’s known for so long no matter the doubts that often cross his foolish mind. Her fears and her sorrows and her regrets do not, and will never, also make it any less true.

“I will search for you endlessly, Sansa.” he says as he kisses her forehead. “I don’t know of anything else.”

She does not reply but instead snuggles closer and he feels her tears on his shoulder. Soon, and despite knowing that she’s trying to contain it, he feels her shoulders shake and hears her sob quietly.

He never wants to see Sansa like this, almost so fearful and vulnerable, for weakness does not suit her. But Jon lets her do so despite the urge of vouching and letting her know that he can take all the suffering the same way he knows she would too, for him. Instead, Jon only grips her tighter, realizing that if this is what can comfort her, then he will give it.

He doesn’t realize it soon too, and only when he gazes out the window again to a bolder and more vivid view of the bricked, neighboring buildings does Jon notice that the rain has already stopped. Peculiarly, he also sees a lone star in the sky.

“We have so much to talk about,” he hears Sansa sniff and mumble again.

He runs his hand and soothes her back, “ _I know_.”

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I can’t believe _you’re_ here.”

That earns a him a chuckle and then a sigh and then a swift kiss on the cheek.

“I can’t believe we did _it_ in the middle of my exhibit.” she tries to joke. The laugh that escapes him is another peculiar notion but he likes hearing it again.

“There’s always a next time.” he shrugs. “And then another.”

Sansa playfully nudges him. But then her silence after unnerves him for this silence could mean so much. This silence, her silence, mirrors the fear they both have for what is still about to unfold. He looks at her and finds a gaze that slightly terrifies him too. For sure, there are so many things they have to figure out. But what evidently comforts him is the idea that perhaps this time, they could face it together.

And as if hearing his thoughts, faintly, Sansa asks beside him, “If this ends, when shall I see you again?”

But that one, that is easy.

Jon turns to her with a smile and he softly caresses her cheek. He whispers, “ _Forever_.”

Sansa breaks into another tearful smile of her own. She looks away only to gaze at her beautiful creation where the white branches and the red leaves hover up above them. Jon looks up too, seeing the mood lights on the ceiling, their warm glow reminding him of the way the northern sky once illuminated because of a blazing fire in the Wolfswood.

He steals another glance, to check if she is _truly_ there (and in which, she is), and then like a child, he fulfills this one thing he so desperately wishes in his dreams every single time. Laying side by side beneath the Heart Tree, Jon reaches for Sansa’s hand, finally and rightfully obliterating any other existing space or crevice that keeps them apart.

“Jon?” Sansa suddenly whispers again in the middle of both their lethargy. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

 _What bliss_.

“Yes, my love. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

* * *

 


End file.
